Java Jive

I kicked coffee, again, for the second time now. Not exactly the thing to be telling a Kona readership, but I’m willing to admit my powerlessness over the jumpstart juice. Coffee and Kava are surely two substances that the FDA hasn’t realized that I need them to regulate. They’re two of my personal favorites. But the joe had to go. Rather than maturing over the years into a mellow Labrador-mix disposition, I was wiring up to purebred poodle. It wasn’t pretty, being 6'2" and yappy. I folded things for fun, fast. I laughed louder than necessary. I could hear my muscles and joints going, “Zah zah zah.” I smiled for no reason.
Getting a decaf cup of the fancy stuff this morning, I reflected on how involved our coffee routines have become. It’s like a tea ceremony, on steroids. I order my jumbo (yes, the official word is grande) unplugged (decaf, of course), and pay. Before I close my wallet, the man behind me is calling out his order, “I want a tall…” and I turn to walk out of his way at the counter. He looks at me, my height, actually, and is cut short (his words) by a perceived faux pas on his part. Thankfully, he didn’t go into the I didn’t mean you, where I have to answer, I didn’t think so, and the downward conversational spiral that would follow. He just didn’t finish his order. In fact, he waited until I found a seat around the coffee counter, out of sight. That man needed some coffee.
This same guy happens to be standing at the receiving end of the process when my cuppa comes out. “Grande Decaf!” the barrista announces. The man reflexively backs away from the cup that lacks caffeine. He might have hissed at the cup, but I didn’t hear for sure. I stand to get my psychological lift, and he backs even farther from the counter. It’s alright, buddy, this nightmare will all be over soon.
I sit back down, and try to focus on my scone, but he has become too fun not to watch. “Tall Latte!” His remedy comes down the chute. “Did you say small?” He looks at his cup with disgust, looks over at my taller cup. “Hey, did you say small or tall?” The barrista has seen this before, “It’s a tall, sir.” His body language says, how come the tall lady’s coffee is taller than mine? I want to tell him that the tallest is called a Grande, but I’m thinking that he needs to find his own way in the world. I sympathize with his disappointment because I once thought a pot and a half wasn’t quite enough. The jumbo decaf is residual of that habit. He stumbles on to the rest of his day while I crumble my scone into bites that I can savor with my pretend coffee.